Milk and Honey. Faye Kellerman

that term—army buddy.”

      Beauchamps shrugged. “Want me to get his rap sheet?”

      “Yeah.”

      Beauchamps punched Abel Atwater into the computer. A few minutes later, he handed the printout to Decker.

      “Three priors,” Beauchamps said. “All for trying to buy undercover pussy. Horny little bugger.”

      “It ain’t nice, but not exactly sexual assault,” Decker said.

      “Maybe Myra made him real mad.”

      Decker said, “Why would Myra Steele keep quiet about her pimp if he didn’t have anything to do with the assault? You’d think she’d get in touch with him first thing.”

      “I don’t know what was inside the lady’s head, but I’ll tell you this. Some of the ass-peddlers get real pissed at their ladies for getting beat up—treat them like damaged goods. Hers probably has a vile temper, and maybe she doesn’t want any more pain.”

      “She still in the hospital?”

      “For sure. Likely to be there a while.”

      “Where?”

      Beauchamps shrugged ignorance.

      “Know who’s paying the bill?” Decker asked.

      “Nope. But I suspect she’s at County, and the city’s footing the expenses.” Beauchamps’s phone rang. He answered the call and said, “Andrick’s back.”

      “Super.”

      “Good luck.”

      “Thanks.”

      “Torres and Hoersch were the first unit to respond to the four-fifteen hotshot,” Andrick said. He was in his late fifties, overweight, with a florid complexion. “There was a lot of commotion, a lot of blood, and they immediately called it in as an ambulance cutting. I got there about fifteen minutes later. The girl was being loaded onto the stretcher, your friend was cuffed, crying and bleeding from a huge gash across his head.”

      Andrick unlocked his file cabinet and loosened his tie. Decker noticed he was breathing heavily, sweat stained his armpits.

      “You okay?” Decker asked.

      Andrick said, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

      “You don’t look so hot.”

      “I said I’m okay,” Andrick answered tightly.

      “Fine,” Decker said. “You’re okay. Can I see the file?”

      Andrick tossed him the folder. Decker read a moment, then said, “The ambulance took the girl. Who took Atwater to the hospital?”

      “I don’t remember,” Andrick said. “Someone must have called another, because they didn’t put the two of them in the same wagon.”

      “Nobody was tending to Atwater’s head wound all this time?” Decker asked.

      “Look,” Andrick said, unbuttoning his shirt, “you got a victim, you got a perp. One ambulance. You’re gonna lose some sleep because some rape-o asshole bled to death?”

      “No.” Decker scanned the file. “You heard him say this? Or is this what the uniforms reported that he said?”

      “Nope,” Andrick said. “Everything I wrote down in my notes, I heard with my own ears … What exactly did I write?”

      Decker read, “‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Fuck, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.’”

      Andrick said, “Yeah, I heard him say that. Those kind of statements don’t do much to clear your good name. Is it hot in here?”

      “A little,” Decker said absently. Lost in thought, he remembered Abel uttering similar words before. One particular memory suddenly flooded Decker’s consciousness. Heavy fire. A gutted village. A little girl around six, her belly blown away. Abel standing over her, his eyes watering from all the smoke. He had whispered it:

      I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt anybody, honest to God, I didn’t.

      Ugly recollections. He pushed them away and looked up at Andrick. His coloring had become pale, his skin pasty, dripping with sweat.

      “Jesus!” Decker whispered. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

      “A minute.” Andrick looked around. Medino had gone to the john. It was safe. He yanked open his desk drawer, and with shaking hands opened a vial of tablets. He placed a pill underneath his tongue.

      A minute later, Decker said, “How long do you think you can hide your condition from the department?”

      “What condition?” Andrick said. “I’m sucking on a peppermint.”

      “A peppermint?”

      “Yeah, a fucking peppermint,” Andrick said. “Keeps my breath fresh … Look, Detective, I’ve got two more years before I cash in twenty-five big ones and a nice-size pension. We’ve got the condo in Murietta Hot Springs, two daughters in college, I need that extra ten percent to make ends meet, you know what I’m saying? So if you want to talk about the case, that’s all right by me. If not, find the door.”

      Medino came back to his desk. Andrick cleared his throat. Decker understood the hint. He said, “Where’s Myra Steele now?”

      “Originally, they took her to Hollywood Pres, but her mom moved her to County because she didn’t have any insurance.”

      Decker said, “Mind if I have a word with Myra?”

      “Be my guest,” Andrick said. “She should be there at least another week. Why all the interest in this case?”

      Decker explained his involvement.

      “And you think your scuzzbag friend is innocent?”

      “I’m withholding judgment.”

      Andrick sat back in his chair and wiped his damp forehead with a handkerchief. He felt much better, was breathing easier. “So what are you gonna do with Myra Steele? Grill her until she retracts what she said?”

      Decker said, “Hell no! If the sucker did it, I’ll kill him for doing that to her and making an ass out of me. But for starters, I’d like to know who’s pimping her.”

      “You won’t get the name from her.”

      “I can try.”

      “Sure,” Andrick said. “Try.” He gave Decker a wary half-smile. “And if you get it from her, you’ll give it to me, right?”

      “Absolutely,” Decker said. “I’m not playing hot dog.”

      “Just so you and I understand each other.”

      “It’s your collar, Detective,” Decker said. “I don’t dance with anyone else’s woman,’ cause I get pissed when someone dances with mine. I’d like to copy the file.”

      “Go ahead,” Andrick said.

      When Decker returned, Andrick said, “Your partner’s on the line.”

      Decker picked up the phone and said, “What’s up?”

      “I got a call from Delferno,” Marge said. “One of his pals says Sally looks like one of his kids. Mother’s from Sacramento. She should be down maybe one, two in the morning. Kid was grabbed by Dad about six months ago.”

      “How old would her kid be?”

      “About two and a half.”

      “Sally’s not two and a half.”

      “Delferno faxed me the picture of the missing kid—kid’s name is Heather Miller. She’s supposed to be